


Mumbai

by AssembletheAvengers



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssembletheAvengers/pseuds/AssembletheAvengers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Clint!" Natasha called pleadingly. He rolled his head forward in response to her shattered tone. His countenance bled apology; he was giving up. He couldn't fight anymore. He wasn't a machine that ran on batteries or that could be fixed within seconds. He bled. He hurt. He felt. He loved. Not even Natasha could pull him back from the edge this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mumbai

Natasha propped her elbow up on the bar, swirling her glass of Stolichnaya, keeping eye contact with her already slightly inebriated partner. Clint tapped his large bottle of Pabst against her cup in response, narrowing his eyes at the Russian. 

“To being one day closer to death.” He toasted, voice slurred slightly. 

“We are _always_ one day closer to death, Barton.” She mumbled, swallowing a mouthful of her vodka. 

“Well then to being halfway to fifty.” He corrected, sliding his empty beer bottle towards the bartender who glanced warily at the beautiful red head. Natasha shrugged. 

“Happy twenty-fifth, Barton.” She laughed, relishing in the burning feeling of the alcohol trailing down her throat. He raised his bottle in acknowledgement. The drunk’s grey eyes roved over Natasha’s body and the sleek red dress that that clothed her and molded to her every curve, finally meeting her emerald eyes. 

“You’re really pretty.” He commented. She chuckled under her breath, ignoring him. 

The bartender stared in astonishment once he realized that the gorgeous red head was _with_ the drunken man. She was so far out of his league it was incomprehensible. 

The assassin knew, and took pride in the fact that she could easily drink Hawkeye under the table. She was Russian, through and through. Natasha had downed three glasses of vodka and was halfway through her fourth when Clint had finally finished his second bottle and was motioning for another when she finally decided he’d had enough. She paid the shocked bartender, pulling the archer’s arm around her shoulders, leading his staggering form out the door. 

The two rounded the corner, doubling over in laughter as they pictured the man’s face as he watched the sexy red head who’d had more vodka than he’d seen any man handle without becoming even a little drunk, and a completely wasted man walk out the doors of the Dakota Bar. Natasha gave her partner a once over, gauging how drunk he really was, before taking the hand he extended to her and letting the marksman lead her out of the alley they had hidden in. 

She wasn’t surprised that they eventually ended up in Brooklyn Bridge Park. Clint ran to or around the beautiful park whenever he needed to cool off. It was his favorite place in New York; the view never left the Russian with any questions as to why. Sitting down on a metal bench, they looked ahead at the bridge in silence, both thinking. Clint looked to his right at his partner, her eyes reflecting the moonlight just like the water laid out in front of them. Looking down, he noticed her small hand holding a small, crudely wrapped package out to him. He held her gaze with confused eyes, not looking away as he peeled away the wrapping paper. In a small jewelry box, a simple black dog tag lay; on one side – the side he saw first – an engraved arrow was barely visible in the dark. On the back, the all too familiar Black Widow’s hour glass shape was carved into the metal. He looked up at her, blinking as he stared calculatedly. She opened her mouth to speak, words he would never know once he cut her off, covering her mouth with his. The box fell into his lap as his arms wound around Natasha, her hands weaving into his hair. The taste of beer mixed with vodka made the kiss even more intoxicating. 

“Tasha…” he breathed against her lips when she pulled away. 

“Happy Birthday.” She cut him off in turn, leaning forward without letting him say anything else. He smiled into her lips, tugging her closer, and twisting his hand into the fabric of her dress. He froze as a suppressed shiver vibrated through her body. She sighed as he leaned away, shrugging out of his thick white button up and draping it over the silk halter top dress. Pulling the necklace out of the mess of wrapping, Clint pulled it over his head, tucking it below the t-shirt he’d worn under the long sleeve button up. He took her hand again, his larger calloused fingers nearly swallowing hers as he stood, pulling her to her feet as they walked back to SHIELD base. 

Clint entered his code at the high tech security entrance to the agency’s headquarters. They continued towards their dorms, a handful of sleepless agents and devoted guards were the only other people in the hallway at 3:30 in the morning. They passed by Coulson’s office as they went, surprised to find the door to his office open. 

“Happy Birthday Agent.” he called across the room, tossing something through the air. Clint and Natasha smirked as they noted the many coffee cups that littered his desk along with the stacks of files. 

“Thanks Phil.” He replied, both he and Natasha mockingly raising their hands in surrender when their handler shooed them out. Clint sat down on his bed once they reached his room, opening the box Phil had given to him. “Wow.” He muttered as he looked down at the new arrow tips lined up in the bottom of the box. Natasha raised her eyebrows in question as she crawled onto the bed, hair hanging down in sheets around her pale face. His oversized work out shirt enveloped her form, falling down to mid-thigh. He handed her the box, leaning back against the headboard. 

“Wow.” She agreed, smiling. The redhead placed the present on the bedside table, lying down beside her partner. His arms curled around waist as she turned into him, tangling one hand in Clint’s hair, and resting the other on his chest, right above his heartbeat. “Best birthday?” she asked quietly. 

“My fifth. Last year before my parents died.” He answered. “You?” 

“Twenty-third, last year.” She shrugged. “Only birthday I’ve spent with people who care.” She muttered. He sighed, his arms tensing around her. 

“But this...” He breathed quietly, lips brushing her ear as he spoke. “Could easily be tied for first.” 

“Happy birthday, Clint.” She whispered as he trailed his lips down her temple, across her cheekbone and finally meeting her lips. 

“I love you Tasha.” He sighed. 

“Love you too.” 

Clint groaned as he opened his eyes, head pounding with the harsh sunlight that streamed through the window. 

“How’s your head, lightweight?” Natasha mocked. He growled something unintelligible, turning his face into the pillow.

“Not a lightweight. You’re Russian.” He defended. She hummed sarcastically, sliding off the bed. Natasha closed the blinds, chuckling quietly when Clint peeked under his arm, looking for all the world like a child. It was then that he noticed that she was dressed in her uniform, blood red hair standing out in striking contrast to her black cat suit. “Mission briefing.” He remembered, groaning again. Natasha raised a mug of steaming coffee to gain his attention before setting it down on the dresser and disappearing into the bathroom. Clint dragged himself out of bed, sleepily pulling his Kevlar vest on over his t-shirt and his vest on over that. 

“Hangover’s suck.” He grumbled to Natasha, shoving his sunglasses on while downing half of the scalding coffee. 

“Clint.” She sighed, eyes flitting downwards. “Pants.” She prompted. He groaned, leaning his head back against the wall and pushing off to find a pair of cargo pants before they could leave. 

“You look horrible, Barton.” Fury told his agent honestly. Phil chuckled from the seat beside the director, shifting his gaze down to the packets on the table. 

“Thanks sir.” Clint replied dryly. Natasha laughed without sympathy, gracefully falling into one of the chairs surrounding the oversized conference table. 

“This mission’s simple, for once.” Fury started professionally. “A piece of SHIELD tech went missing from the India base at 0600 yesterday. Obtain the tech and apprehend the thief.” He muttered in a slightly uninterested tone. 

“Do we know who the thief is?” Clint asked. Coulson shook his head. 

“Cameras were hacked.” Phil answered. 

“Simple?” Clint scoffed. Fury shrugged, waving them out. 

“You leave in an hour.” Coulson told them. Clint and Natasha stood; Natasha saluted professionally, leading the way out of the conference room with Clint trailing after her like a drugged puppy. 

“You shower, I’ll pack. You can sleep off your hangover on the Quinjet.” She ordered, pushing him into the bathroom. His protests were cut off by the slamming of the bathroom door. Natasha packed their weapons in their individual duffle bags, slipping out of her suit and changing into skin tight leggings, a tank top and Clint’s SHIELD jacket. She pulled the oversized jacket closer to her body, curling up in the corner of the couch while she waited for her partner to get out of the shower. She heard the door open through a tired haze, but didn’t bother to open her eyes once she recognized Clint labored footsteps. The couch dipped beside her and a warm hand slid up and down her thigh. 

“You tired?” he asked gruffly as Natasha opened her eyes, raising an eyebrow at Clint appearance. His overgrown, still wet hair hung down in his eyes, his bare chest showing off his many scars. She shrugged, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his hair. 

“How’s your head?” she countered. He shrugged. 

“Sympathetic now?” he teased quietly. She rolled her green eyes, allowing him to lean forward and kiss her gently. Her fingers raked through the wet strands of light brown hair as she stood up, tossing his duffle bag on his lap. 

                “Let’s go.” She held her hand out, hauling Hawkeye to his feet. 

                “You sure you’re gonna be ok to pilot? I can stay awake if you want to sleep.” He tugged the Russian to a stop as they reached the Quinjet, taking a curl between his thumb and forefinger, even as he blinked against the light. Natasha smirked, pulling his hand out of her hair. 

                “I’ll see if I can get Phil to…” Natasha paused, eyes shifting above Clint’s shoulder. 

                “If you can get me to what?” their handler prodded. 

                “To pilot.” She replied. Phil looked over Barton’s squinted eyes and the purple circles that stood out against Romanoff’s skin, nodding without hesitation. Natasha nodded in thanks and Clint clapped Phil on the shoulder as they boarded the plane with Phil following close behind. Phil dropped down into the captain’s chair, mentally going through his pre-takeoff check list. Natasha sat down in the co-pilots chair, letting her partner’s jacket envelope her further as the lingering scent of his hair gel lulled her into a state between awake and asleep. Clint curled up in the seat behind her, falling asleep before his head hit the window. Phil looked over his shoulder at his childlike charges, laughing quietly to himself as he eased the plane into takeoff. 

                Natasha automatically woke ten minutes before they landed, flipping out of the chair and crouching down a safe distance away from her sleeping partner. He shot up, ever poised for an attack, the first time Natasha called his name. Her lips twitched upwards in the beginning of a smile. 

The plane touched down on the roof of the India base, just outside New Delhi. The SHIELD agents took the keys for the black Fiat that was waiting for them in the garage. Natasha drove to give Phil a break while Clint continued to drift in and out of consciousness. The archer’s eyes opened once the redhead pulled the car up to their safe house just inside Sutar Pakhadi. Clint reached over the seat and shook their handler. 

“We’re here.” He muttered tiredly, throwing open the door and punching his code into the panel beside the door. He threw his weapon’s bag on the dining table, before moving to the fridge, and taking an apple out of the drawer then sitting down in the chair and propping his feet up on the table. He looked backwards over his shoulder when the front door slammed shut. Natasha took in her partner’s appearance, sighing before pulling him out of the chair and into the small three cot bedroom they were used to. 

The Black Widow and Hawkeye sat down on the furthest cot and Clint allowed her to guide his head into her lap. Natasha massaged her fingers through his still aching head, brushing her hand over his eyes to close them. 

“Tasha?” he murmured. She hummed in acknowledgment. “I haven’t gotten drunk since I was in the Carnival.” He admitted. 

“I could tell.” She replied in amusement. 

“Thanks.” He smiled sloppily, intertwining their fingers and kissing the back of her hand. 

A smell Natasha easily recognized as Clint’s cooking interrupted the red head’s sleep, her eyes flying open in response. She swung her legs over the edge of the cot, pulling her green tank top down over her skin tight sleep shorts as she walked towards the door. 

Clint eyes flashed towards the bedroom door as it opened barely, a slightly disheveled looking, yet still mesmerizingly beautiful, Russian spy ghosting into the kitchen. A smile twitched at his lips, ‘ _Morning.’_ She blinked slowly, looking up at him through her eyelashes as she brushed her fingers through her tangled hair. _‘Morning.’_ Her look repeated. Her bright green eyes, set off by the matching tank top, scanned over his bare muscled chest. He smirked, willingly accepting the glare it earned him. She sat down at the table, hunching over the doctored cup of coffee Clint had left on the table for her. 

                “Phil is holed up in the attic doing research.” Clint told her as he set her breakfast down in front of her. She began shoveling eggs into her mouth, smiling a little up at her partner who had sat down across from her. 

                “What is he…?” she started to ask. A pile of papers slapped down on the dining table as if answering her question. The agents’ looked up at their stressed looking handler with matching expressions demanding answers. 

                “Found the thief.” He explained. “He’s an ex-KGB and that’s all the database has on him.” Clint had reached for the second packet Phil had printed out and had skimmed through half of it by the time his partner was on the second page. “He’s going to be at the IFBC Recital on Sunday. If Romanoff poses as one of the dancers, we can get in.”

                “Bushov.” Natasha ground out before roughly shoving her chair away from the table. Clint’s head shot up, catching a glimpse of her as she disappeared out the front door, the slamming door echoing the clattering of the chair hitting the floor. Clint threw the packet down on the table, bolting out after her. The marksman looked to his right just in time to see her shadow evaporate into the darkness of the fire escape. He followed her up without hesitation, creeping across the roof towards the hunched shadow of his partner. 

                “Tasha…” he whispered, crouching down so his lips were brushing her ear. 

“Я не видел его с тех пор Красная комната. Он был тем, кто пришел после меня, когда я побежал. Он был тем, кто наказал меня ...” She rambled, voice cracking with suppressed panic. 

_‘I haven't seen him since the Red Room. He was the one who came after me when I defected. He was the one who punished me...’_

“Tasha.” He interrupted again, draping his muscled arm over her shoulders to still the shaking that vibrated through her. “Breathe.” He instructed, pulling her hand over his heart to help her get her breathing in sync with his. She dragged an unsteady breath through her teeth. “Now in English.” She leaned her forehead against his chest as she worked to control her breathing. 

“When I would mess up… In the Red Room, Yuri Bushov, the thief, he would be the one to punish me.” She shivered involuntarily and Clint held her tighter, trying to keep his body from going stone still at the mention of the people who had stolen his partner’s childhood. “He worked with Alexei.” She muttered almost silently. 

“Your husband?” he clarified. She nodded against his chest. 

“He’s the last person I danced for, Clint.” She admitted brokenly. Clint couldn’t hold back the tense that spread through his body. 

“You’ve danced for me, Nat.” he reminded. She shook her head. 

“I’ve danced with you. Not for you. Alexei used to make me…” 

“Stop.” He shut his eyes against the words he didn’t want to hear. “I watched you dance, all those years ago in the gym.” He admitted. 

“I know.” She replied quietly. 

“Were you scared of me?” he prompted. 

“No.” she answered cooperatively. 

“Then pretend you’re dancing for me. Forget Alexei.” He growled. She sighed, cradling his face in her left hand. He kissed the palm of her hand in reply. 

“Thank you.” She murmured sincerely. 

“Always.”

Clint helped Natasha tip her head backwards into the sink, turning on the faucet and letting it run the blonde dye down the drain. The archer turned off the water, handing the natural red head a towel from the rack on the wall across the bathroom. Natasha towel dried her hair, flipping her head back so that the individual soaked strands fell down her nearly bare back. The recently dyed blonde curls whipped her skin where her black sports bra stopped at the bottom of her shoulder blades. Clint frowned as his beautiful partner leaned over the counter, effortlessly covering her brilliant green irises with blue contacts. Natasha chuckled quietly to herself as she glanced at her partner’s dejected expression. She braced herself against the counter, meeting his eyes in the reflection of the mirror. 

                “I like you better as a ginger.” He admitted, reaching out to twirl a strand of hair between his thumb and forefinger. 

                “You say that _every_ time I have to dye my hair, Clint.” She sighed. “Besides, Bushov,” she spat with more venom than he had heard in her voice in a long time. “Watched me grow up, he has been tracking me since I defected. He would recognize me within seconds.” He pursed his lips, studying her carefully as she leaned closer to the mirror to finish applying her makeup. His mouth fell open slightly as he studied her lips while she outlined them in bright red lip stick. She smirked, pointing out the bathroom door. “Go get dressed.” He pouted playfully, pulling the door shut behind him. 

                Clint changed out of his sweatpants and into his custom tailored black tuxedo. Smoothing a layer of gel over his fingers, he tracked his fingers through his hair, spiking the dark blonde strands at the front. He powered up his laptop, sitting down against the headboard. He had barely started his next set of paper work from his last probation when ‘Giuliana Antonelli’ opened the bathroom door. His recently turned blonde haired, blue eyed partner twirled around, the short blue ballet gown spiraling upwards at her hips. The dress tapered at her sternum, bleeding into a Terylene fabric skirt that fluttered at the barest puff of air. He pushed off the floor, eyes boring into her body while her eyes raked up the length of his suit.  

                “Let’s go Mr. Antonelli.” She murmured, pulling him by his bicep. She stopped by the door, pulling her dress coat over the blue ballet gown and tying it around her waist, Clint leading the way to the street where the taxi would pick her up. He left her at the corner, sliding into the passenger side of the Fiat where Phil was already waiting. They sped off after the taxi until they reached the venue where the IFBC Recital was supposed to be held. 

Clint found his seat in the audience, slipping around the people who crowded the aisles. Clint buried his hands deep into his pockets, standing in front of his seat as he stared at the closed curtains of the stage. 

“Sei in, Giuliana?” he breathed into his comm., using what was supposedly Natasha’s cover’s first language.

_‘You in, Giuliana?’_

They SHIELD trio agreed that it was too risky to use her given Red Room name in the event of Bushov hacking the radio signal. It was risky enough displaying her ballet skills for him. 

“Riscaldamento adesso, Marco.” She replied from the other side of the comm. in flawless Italian. 

‘ _Warming up now, Marco.’_

Natasha reached forward, hands sliding down her leg until they closed around the sole of her foot. Natasha paused in her stretches when she heard Clint’s growled arabic swear word, effortlessly rising out of the splits she had slid into on the hard wood floor with countless dancers practicing around her. 

“È Bushov qui?” she guessed. 

‘ _Is Bushov here?’_

“Si.” Her partner growled, red pouring into his tone. Clint sat stiffly in his seat as the lights dimmed and a ballerina took the stage.  

“No.” Phil warned forcefully. 

“Lascialo andare. Non è possibile saltare la nostra copertura. Non ancora. Avrai la tua occasione.” Natasha cut in gently. 

‘ _Let him go. You can not blow our cover. Not yet. You’ll get your chance.’_

“Sono su in cinque. Come è il tuo punto di vista?” The blonde Italian asked Phil under her breath. 

‘ _I’m on in five. How’s your point of view?’_

“Non va bene.” Phil responded in strained Italian. 

‘ _Not good.’_

“Guiliana Antonelli...” the supervisor whispered backstage. Natasha tucked the miniscule comm link into her hairsprayed, dyed messy bun, created especially to conceal a switchblade and her comm. She heard the faint buzzing of her teammates as she skipped off after the older woman like the older teenager she was posing to be. 

A Josu Gallasteguipiano piece sounded from the stage, ‘Guiliana’s’ cue to perform grand jeté onto the stage. Clint’s mouth dropped open, unashamed as he stared at his fair skinned partner leaping gracefully across the stage. She jumped up in a complex pas de chat, landing and immediately slipping into countless consecutive fouettés. Clint watched his Russian partner dance as he had never seen her dance before. The only word he could come up with to describe her was angelic. Her blue ballet dress twisted around her waist, fluttering as she grand jetéd across the stage. The music came to close and she ended in a pose. Clint would swear her eyes met his, setting a fire that spread from her eyes to his body. But he was sure every other man in the auditorium would swear the same thing. He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared behind the curtain. 

“We’re blown.” Phil hissed urgently into the comm. Clint barely gave himself time to register what that could mean before he calmly pushed himself out of the theatre chair, searching for Bushov with feigned calm. Clint slammed the door open, bolting down the hallway until he skidded to a stop in front of the stage entrance. He pushed open the door, coming face to face with his once again stretching partner. He pulled her into him, closing his lips over hers as he backed both himself and his wife out of the room. 

“We’re blown.” He repeated before she could question him. Understanding lit the blonde’s features and her eyes hardened. ‘Marco Antonelli’ dragged his wife through the hallway until they came to the nearest exit where they knew Phil would be waiting with the car. 

“My, my, Natalya. You haven’t changed a bit.” A terrifyingly familiar voice hissed from the shadows as the Black Widow ripped around, gun leveled between Bushov’s eyes. Clint glanced at his partner’s posture out of the corner of his eye. _She was scared._ In the whole time they had been partner’s he had never seen her scared during a mission. Bushov whipped the butt of his gun into Natasha’s temple, sending her crumpling to the ground. Before Clint could retaliate, Bushov stabbed a needle into the archer’s neck. Blackness crept into Barton’s vision before he could do anything about it.

 

                “You honestly believed I wouldn’t be able to notice you because of this?” Bushov hissed, roughly pulling on a piece of Natasha’s blonde hair. Trust the man who had trained her to zero in the moment she regained consciousness. “Your body alone, dear Natalya, was enough to give you away. Not to mention your dancing.” He chastised in his thick Russian accent. Natasha eased her eyes open, instantly recognizing the familiar feeling of a concussion. She tested the metal handcuffs that held her lethal hands behind the back of the chair. The same unrelenting metal bound her feet to the legs of the chair she knew was bolted to the floor. She stared Bushov dead in the eye, refusing to acknowledge the nightmares and flashbacks that washed over her.  “Your training has stuck, I see. I’m flattered.” He spat sarcastically. “Seen as I know that you know why you’re here, let me remind you for the fun of it.” The man gestured indistinctly, an action that Natasha knew was an order. She looked over her shoulder, easily keeping her face expressionless while she scanned her partner, mentally checking his vitals as best as she could. Clint’s wrists were bound in metal chains that Natasha recognized all too well. He hung limply from a metal bar that hung low from the ceiling. His feet barely touched the ground and depending on how long he had been hanging, the assassin estimated he didn’t have much longer before his body started suffering. “He is alive, my dear. But for how long he will remain so, is up to you.” Natasha tore her eyes away from her already bruised partner, looking back at one of the men who had stolen her childhood. “I need the code for the SHIELD tech I stole.” He continued blandly. 

“The TBL prototype?” Natasha prodded. “It’s in progress, Bushov. It’s not done yet.” 

“Do not forget your manners, Natalya.” He growled in a deadly calm voice that had Natasha wincing before the blow she expected even came. Bushov’s hand collided with the side of her face that was already bruised from the butt of the pistol, the rough surface of his ring biting into her cheek, undoubtedly on purpose. The Black Widow looked up at the man towering above her with a passive expression. 

“SHIELD is not sure what it is capable of yet, _владыка.”_ She growled, unwilling to unnecessarily risk herself yet. 

“Very good, дочь.” He praised in his usual condescending tone. “What is the code?” he repeated challengingly. “Very well.” He sighed as she raised her chin in defiance. “What is the extent to which you care for this… _American?”_ He grimaced. 

“Я не.” She denied. “He was my cover for this mission. A pawn, really.” She lied perfectly.

‘ _I don’t.’_

“ _Liar!”_ Bushov yelled, drilling his fist into the girl’s abdomen. Natasha kept herself as straight as she could, working hard to breathe steadily, refusing to give Bushov the satisfaction of knowing he could still hurt her. The Russian man stalked towards her hanging partner, taking the crowbar from one of the guards as he passed. He made quick work of cutting away Hawkeye’s shirt, holding the knife he had used to the archer’s throat when he startled awake, thrashing against the chains that suspended him above the ground. “What is your relationship to the Black Widow?” he questioned fiercely. Hawkeye stared blankly past the man as his brain worked to dispel the drugged haze that seemed to close in on him from all sides. “Answer!” he demanded angrily. Clint finally focused in on Bushov; hate, more intense than any other emotion Natasha had ever seen from him, clear in his eyes. “He loves you,” Bushov stated as he scrutinized the man before him. “But…is the feeling mutual?” he asked mysteriously. Barton barely had time analyze what was about to happen, the steel bar was repeatedly slammed into his ribcage. 

Bushov didn’t stop until the sickening crack of his victim’s ribs resounded in the holding room. Clint dry heaved into the concrete below him as the position he was forced into pulled agonizingly at his now broken and bruised ribs. Bushov twirled the crowbar in his hand, crouching down in front of the Black Widow with a sick sadistic smile on his face. Romanoff tried to mold her features into a mask that Bushov wouldn’t be able to see through. But that man had trained her. He _created_ the very masks that had fooled better men. 

“You love him.” Bushov concluded. “I thought I trained you better than this, дочь.” He chastised. “Love is what?” he prompted, reaching up to take her face in his hands. Natasha jerked her head away, keeping her lips pressed together. “ _Love is what?”_ he repeated furiously. 

 “Weakness.” She answered mechanically. He twitched his knife across her cheek, leaving a crimson trail from the corner of her eye to her exposed jaw. 

“Answer me when I ask you a question, Natalya.” He ordered. She looked over his shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes. “Give me the codes, and your lover may go free. You will return to Russia with me and face your punishment – _that_ dear Talya is inevitable. What is the code?” Natasha remained silent. “Very well.” He waved his hand. Two guards stepped forward, almost robotically. 

“Be sure she watches.” He addressed the guard who had been posted behind the ex-KGB assassin. Clint’s agonized eyes searched for Natasha’s, almost desperately. ‘ _Don’t tell him.’_ They warned. Her eye twitched as the guards charged to metal rods. 

Clint looked away from Natasha’s eyes. It didn’t matter that it made it all a little more bearable if he could see her – he knew watching the pain in his eyes would only cause her to break quicker. He couldn’t help his eyes flitting towards hers as they brought the metal rods towards his exposed chest. Her intense stare bore into him, granting him permission to hold her gaze. He intended to look away, but once the metal came into contact, repeatedly shocking him, he _needed_ the connection. Natasha clenched her jaw as excruciation sliced through Clint’s blue grey eyes. His body locked up and he tried to focus on anything other than the pain that radiated from his abdomen. The guards finally pulled away and both agents relaxed, even if only barely on Clint’s behalf. 

Bushov made a noise of disgust as he looked back and forth between the two, taking his position before Natasha again. 

“You care for him more than I thought.” He sighed condescendingly, looking completely disappointed in the girl he’d thought to be his most promising candidate. “What is the code?” he asked once again. Natasha couldn’t look at her partner as she denied again. “Natalya,” he sighed. “How much can your dear partner take?” 

“I’ve dealt with a lot worse.” Clint growled from behind them. 

“ _Silence!”_ the Russian screamed. “Вы будете ломать, моя дорогая, это лишь вопрос, как долго ваш любовник будет страдать, прежде чем делать.” He hissed, trailing the same hand that had tortured Clint, down her face. 

_‘You will break, my dear, it's only a matter of how long your lover will have to suffer before you do.’_

               Once again, he approached the beaten man, turning the crank that adjusted the chains that Hawkeye was bound by. Natasha fought the urge to wince at the sound of Clint’s painful, sharp intake of breath as his body lifted off the ground. The guards followed Bushov out like lost puppies, leaving the SHIELD agents to themselves. 

                The door slammed shut and Clint’s labored breathing became audible. Natasha pulled at her handcuffs, as she stared straight ahead at her partner. 

                “Clint.” She called calmly. He stared at the ground; breathing staggered enough to be classified as hyperventilating. “Barton! Look at me.” She snapped. Clint dragged his eyes up to meet hers. “Focus on me. Forget about everything else.” 

                “Easier said than done, Nat.” he grunted. Sweat dripped down his chest, curving around his muscles and mingling with the blood that coated the burns and bruises. 

                “Look at me.” She repeated as his eyes dropped again. “Count backwards from one hundred.” She ordered as his eyes glazed over in all-consuming agony. 

                “Сто, девяносто девять, девяносто восемь…” he obeyed, biting down on his lip as he focused all of his energy on memorizing every single faucet of his partner’s face. 

                But even with the distraction, he knew, and so did Natasha, that he would go into shock sooner rather than later. He wouldn’t last much longer.

                “Clint!” Natasha snapped as her partner’s eyes drifted shut for the third time since Bushov had left. His breathing was coming in short gasps now, pulling painfully at his ribs and stressed shoulders as they struggled to hold his body weight. He worked to force his eyes up to hers. 

                “You can’t… give him the…” he panted, cutting himself up with a wet cough. He dropped his chin to his chest, spraying blood onto the concrete. He ground out a curse as he recognized the familiar pain of a punctured lung. “You can’t.” he repeated, looking up at her. 

                “Don’t flatter yourself.” She scoffed half-heartedly even as worry flooded her eyes. ‘ _Tasha…’_ his sympathetic glare warned. She looked away. ‘ _I know.’_

                The door flew open, slamming against the wall as Bushov strode in, flanked by two of his silent guards. The guards locked their arms behind their backs, taking their places on either side of Clint. Natasha watched as Clint’s body locked up and he tightened his grip on the chains binding his arms. He pulled himself up, swinging his leg into the temple of the Russian on his left. Before the guard could drop, his partner had the barrel of a gun buried in Clint’s abdomen. Barton winced as the gun prodded his broken ribs, easily subduing him. Their captor flipped the locking mechanism that held the chains in place, sending Hawkeye crashing to the ground. Clint rolled onto his hands and knees vainly trying to catch his breath. Bushov stalked towards him landing kick after kick on the man’s already battered body. 

                “His body can’t take much more, владыка.” Natasha spoke as Clint went limp, absorbing the beating as best he could. 

                “And why should I care?” Bushov responded haughtily, continuing mercilessly. 

                “Because…” Natasha snarled. “If he dies, you lose your leverage and you may as well kill me here and now. If you kill him, your men won’t live to see another day.” She threatened with more dark, honest, passionate, threatening hate than any person should’ve been capable of possessing. Bushov faltered for only a moment before he turned to face his trainee. 

                The dye in her blonde hair had started to fade, her natural crimson shade bleeding through. Sweat soaked, dirty strands fell down around her shoulders and framed her face. Her torn and muddy ballet costume clung loosely to her body and hung off her shoulders. Couple that with the murderous look she was giving the men as they slowly, torturously killed her partner – the only man who had ever seen her as anything other than a pretty face to be used – made her look like the stuff of nightmares. 

                “Then you better talk fast, my dear.” He finally replied after swallowing back what he believed to be irrational fear of nothing more than a girl. “Viktor!” he shouted at someone over his shoulder. A man joined them in the holding cell, unrolling what looked to be a hose as he went. Clint groaned as if it water boarding were nothing more than an everyday inconvenience. 

                ‘ _5 minutes, 49 seconds…’_ echoed in both Clint and Natasha’s minds as they tied Clint’s biceps behind his back and stretched the cloth over his mouth and nose. Clint took a deep breath, moments before Viktor turned on the hose. ‘ _1…2…3…4…5…6’_ they both counted as the streaming water soaked the cloth, effectively starting to suffocate the agent. At five minutes, fifty one seconds, Clint started to drown, and instinctually tried to turn his head to the side. His body wasn’t strong enough to fight against the bruising grip that the brutish Russian had on his face. Drops of water slid into Clint’s lungs, one by one, causing him to be on the verge of starting to panic, despite all the training he’d had. He knew enough not to try to cough or breathe; it would only speed up the process. His vision started to go black from lack of oxygen when he heard Natasha’s voice through a watery haze. 

                “You’re suffocating him.” She told him, almost panicking herself. He had started drowning exactly forty five seconds ago. “Бушов, пожалуйста.” nearly begging. Clint couldn’t focus his faltering brain well enough to translate. 

                “Do not beg, Natalya!” Bushov yelled angrily, slapping her harshly with one hand and motioning for the water to be shut off with the other. 

                The flow of water suddenly cut off, and the rope bounding Clint’s arms was cut. He was thrown forward out of chair, into a heap on the ground. He pushed himself up on his forearms, coughing forcefully to dispel the water that had managed to invade his lungs. He coughed, gasping in breaths at the same time. He vomited blood and water into a puddle on the concrete ground, rolling over on his back once he’d rid his lungs of most of the fluid. He lie flat on his back hyperventilating as he tried to keep up with the amount of air his body was demanding. 

                “Clint…” a well-known, hoarse voice called from somewhere in the room. He turned his head in the direction he believed the voice had come from. “استنشاقکردن.” She instructed in Persian, it being the first language she thought of that hadn’t been taught in the Red Room. “استنشاقکردن” she repeated until Clint’s breathing steadied relatively. 

                ‘ _Breathe.’_

                Clint suddenly felt himself being dragged off the floor and into a chair. He muffled a scream in his shoulder that even Agent Barton couldn’t hold back when the telltale pop sounded from his shoulder as it dislocated with the force with which the guards pulled his arms back. 

                In that moment, the Black Widow could say for the first time that she almost wanted to cry in fear. Almost. But the Black Widow didn’t cry. 

                “Ah ah, Natalya.” Bushov shook his head. “Interference is not tolerated.” He reminded, crouching down. Natasha remained still as stone as he trailed his knife down the length of her body. A low growl sounded from Hawkeye’s throat as Bushov slit the side of the ballet costume from the waist down and leaned forward until his lips nearly touched hers. “I will ask once more before I leave. If I have to come back… well, I won’t be returning a fourth time.” He warned. “What are the codes?” Clint’s head twitched to the side, ‘ _No.’_ She blinked slowly and ignored the question. “My, my. Maybe you don’t care for this man.” He hummed contemplatively. He waved his men out ahead of him, leaving for the second time. 

                “I…” Clint started once the door closed. 

                “I swear on my life, Barton, if you say you’re ok I will shoot you the second we get out of this mess.” She hissed. “And don’t say you can handle it either. Because you _can’t._ You have been beaten, burned, electrocuted, drowned, you’re lung is punctured and your shoulder is dislocated. Not even you can handle that.” She ranted, the fine tremors vibrating through her betraying her fear. 

                “You’re right. But I _will_ handle it.” He promised, eyes flying shut as a wave of agony traveled through him. “Tasha, look at me, please.” He murmured painfully. Her eyes met his with feigned fearlessness. Green eyes bled uncharacteristic fear, apology, and worry while grey eyes bled sincerity, helplessness, honesty, and pain, ‘ _I love you.’_

Fever had wreaked havoc on Clint’s weakened body in the short time Bushov had been gone. A pattern resembling a paint pallet decorated his face in the shades purple, blue, and yellow. His exposed chest showed two angry red burn marks streaking downwards on either side of his clavicle. Every shade of the spectrum colored his chest, red highlighting the particularly brutal hits – one tell that he was suffering from internal bleeding. Hundreds of other bruises littered the length of the archer’s body and to top it off his shoulder was sickeningly swollen. 

                “Phil’s ‘na come, Tash. He’s com’n.” Clint slurred, staring deliriously at the blood spattered floor. Natasha ignored his drunken assurances and focused on working her mutilated hands out of the cuffs. Without being able to see her hands she knew they were a bloody mangled mess but one look at her dying partner had her wriggling her hands with little regard for the pain.  

                “Clint.” She snapped as his murmured voice drifted off. “How high is your fever?” she demanded. The beaten man took a few deep breaths as he contemplated. 

                “Uhh… one-oh-six?” he panted questioningly, his head lolling to the side. 

                “Barton! Tell me about Budapest.” She ordered. “What don’t I remember?” she asked desperately as she continued working at the black bindings around her wrists. The marksman cocked his head to the other side. 

                “Buhdahest?” he repeated, coughing weakly in resignation. Natasha tugged against the handcuffs in frustration, spitting out a curse as she watched his body attempt to shut down. He shuddered as he fought it, zeroing in on Natasha’s slightly pained countenance to draw himself away from the temptation to just _let go._ It would’ve been so much easier to give in – let go – let the excruciating pain that burned _everywhere_ end – to succumb to the tantalizing numbness he knew he could reach without trying. 

                _Natasha._

                “Budapest.” He repeated slowly. Natasha just nodded, pain contorting her features as she pulled roughly at the biting metal. 

                “S’ok, Tasha. Stop.” He ordered, glaring pointedly through her at her hands that were hidden from his view. She shook her head, sending herself spiraling into concussed nausea. 

                “I’ve almost got my right…” she hissed against the agonizing stinging as she pulled her right hand free. She pulled her arm onto her lap against her bruised stomach, cradling the shredded limb and letting her eyes flutter shut for half a moment before turning her attention back to her partner. Clint switched his jaw as he analyzed her wrist. “Don’t you dare.” She warned darkly as he opened his mouth to ask if she were ok. His voice was cut off in any case when he moved slightly in the chair. His breathing, which he had eventually managed to steady relatively, started coming in sharp gasps. In one excruciating movement, his shoulder, his ribs and the rest of his aching torso shifted. The archer didn’t even have it in him to make a sound. His body was officially checking out. 

                “ _Clint!”_ Natasha called pleadingly. He rolled his head forward in response to her shattered tone. His countenance bled apology; he was giving up. He couldn’t fight anymore. He wasn’t a machine that ran on batteries or that could be fixed within seconds. He bled. He hurt. He felt. He _loved._ Not even Natasha could pull him back from the edge this time. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t try. ‘ _I can’t.’_ he conveyed with the most heartbreakingly apologetic expression. “Then don’t. Just listen.” He blew out a deep breath, using up as much of his little remaining strength as he dared to steel himself enough to listen. “If you leave me with all the crap detail we’re going to get for this, I will drag you back from hell just to send you back.” She threatened even as for the first time since she was three, _Natalya Romanova cried._ Barton blinked sluggishly, ‘ _I’m sorry.’_ “I will not be the one to explain to Coulson why his agent,best friend, son, _brother_ isn’t going home with him.” She added. “Clint, I’m not going back.” She decided quietly as he forced another breath into his lungs. 

                “Yes you are. You’re going to finish this forsaken mission and you are going to go home, get your wrists fixed up, and steal all my records in the gym.” He replied with the steadiness that only came with the approaching numbness. 

                “What records? I wiped yours off the table years ago.” She bantered weakly. “Clint…” she tried seriously. 

                “Tasha, everything I ever said,” he whispered. “I meant.” He murmured seriously as he curled forward, groaning in anguish. 

                “So did I.” she responded in gut wrenching acceptance as his body, which had been locked up tight in counteracting the pain, went limp. Her expression hardened to a degree that the world hadn’t seen since she’d defected. All emotion, all feeling, anything Barton had drawn out of her dormant soul, vanished with him. 

                The door crashed open revealing a satisfied looking Bushov and his men. They approached her, smiling sadistically at her unfeeling, robotic expression. By the time they were close enough to realize she’d managed to get one hand free, they were also close enough for her to subdue. One at a time, with blinded, uncaring fury, she knocked ones gun into her lap with her elbow, twirling it in her hand before rapidly firing off enough shots so that each guard lay dead on the floor. Bushov’s furious face filled her vision in the next minute. 

                “Now, now, Natalya. Just because your partner is dead…” he started. The shift in Natasha’s features had him justifiably backing away. She promptly fired a round, glaring as it missed his heart by mere inches. A crash, identical to the one Bushov’s men made when they invaded the holding cell, sounded from behind them. Natasha fired the last bullet in the gun, eyes focusing in on the SHIELD agents that poured in as Yuri Bushov dropped like a rock. 

                Natasha thrashed in the chair as the medical team rushed towards her comatose, if not dead, archer. She faintly heard Coulson’s placating remarks as he knelt at her feet to break the chains then moved to her back to release her left hand. Once the rational part of her brain won over, something the Red Room had conditioned her in; she stilled enough for Phil to finish releasing her. One look over his shoulder though, at the men who were working around Clint to get his heart beating had her deranged responses resurfacing. 

               The second the med evac touched down on SHIELD’s helipad, Clint – attached to wires and tubes that had barely managed to stabilize the agent throughout the duration of the flight – was carted away to the ES Lab in the medical bay. 

               Phil had drugged his red head charge when she succeeded in slicing open the arm of one of the doctors who had tried to tell his colleagues to cut Clint loose – to let him die. Phil would’ve been lying if he’d said he hadn’t had a chance to stop her. He’d seen the tension building in her stance with each breath the faithless man took. Phil had made the choice to let her make the doctor pay. He’d only put Natasha down to protect her from herself. Clint had hit rock bottom three times. And three times Phil had found her crouching behind the co-pilot’s seat, her gun clenched in her hand and pointed loosely at herself. He had pried it from her. She’d gone cold and it killed her handler – her only other friend in the hell she called life – to watch the hope fade into her rapidly dulling eyes every time her partner pulled out of another fallout. 

               Now Phil Coulson sat in the hallway, leaning against the wall of the room he knew Clint lie in, still comatose. Phil stared down at his hands, at Clint’s blood smeared across his chest and arms, transferred there when he helped the rescue team carry Barton’s dead weight from the holding cell. The handler’s breathing started coming in shallow gasps as he heard the increase in activity through the wall. Natasha was still passed out in the room across the hall. He couldn’t stand to look at her beaten and bruised body, or Clint’s comatose raw, swollen, tortured body. He hadn’t been fast enough and it was tearing him up that Clint might not make it because he hadn’t been there in time. The older agent let his head fall into his hands, ignoring the sticky substance smearing across his face.

               “I could’ve told them.” A confident voice said from above him. He looked up to find Natasha staring down at him, almost as pale as the long white night gown that clothed her bruised skin. Her arms wrapped around herself as she watched the man she nearly considered a friend. 

               “No. If you’d have broken protocol, your partnership would’ve been terminated or you would’ve been dismissed.” Phil recited unfeelingly. He looked up when he felt the air around them shift, only to see Natasha’s hand held out to him in a confident gesture that betrayed nothing. 

               “You look like you’ve been through hell and back Coulson.” She explained blankly. Phil sighed, taking the hand she offered but supporting most of his own weight as he got to his feet. She pointed uncaringly at the bathroom down the hall ignoring Phil’s somewhat concerned glare. 

               “It wasn’t your fault Romanoff.” He stated carefully. She shot him a heated glare that told him that had nothing to do with it. He’d been training her for three years. He _knew_ that was part of the problem. 

               “I’m not going to go rogue.” She rolled her eyes, gesturing agitatedly towards the bathroom again. 

               “Take it easy, would you Romanoff?” he sighed, trudging off down the hallway. Natasha spun around on her heel, sliding her back down the wall until she hit the ground with a wince. Her body ached from the beatings she’d received from Bushov and she’d pulled out of her drug induced coma less than fifteen minutes ago. But that was _nothing_ compared to what Clint had suffered through. She leaned her forehead down on her knees, resting her hand over the back of her neck as she ignored the ache pulsing through her arms, head and abdomen. 

               “Are you ok, miss…” the newly recruited agent froze in total terror as he realized the girl he was about to show sympathy towards was the Black Widow herself. She twitched towards him, grinning in satisfaction when he tripped over himself to scramble away. 

               “You’re going to have to stop scaring all the recruits, agent.” a roughly familiar voice ordered from above her. 

               “Sir…” Natasha started, moving to push herself off the floor. 

               “Stand down, Romanoff.” Director Fury waved her off, allowing her to stay seated. “Any word on Barton?” he asked with a faint shadow of something resembling concern in his stone hard features. 

               “Not yet, sir, no.” she responded, angling her head towards the wall to better hear the commotion on the other side. 

               “How bad was it?” he asked, almost amused. _Almost._ Natasha laughed humorlessly.

               “Bad, director.” She answered simply. He nodded sharply. 

               “Alert me when his condition changes.” He ordered. Natasha raised her hand to her hairline in a somewhat mocking salute. The Director marched away the way he’d come, nodding to Phil as he passed his third in command. Coulson slid down next to the Russian, face and hands washed cleaned of red while they waited side by side for news. 

               “Agent Romanoff, Agent Coulson, he’s stable.” A doctor peeked his head into the hallway completely covered in blood, sweat and dirt from the cell they had rescued Hawkeye from. Phil and Natasha’s heads snapped up and they got to their feet within seconds. The doctor ushered his workers out of the room, waving Clint’s partners inside. Coulson inhaled sharply, running his hands through his hair in mounting panic. One word came to mind when he saw his friend – _dead._ Clint honestly looked dead, wrapped in the blood spattered white sheets, covered in bandaging, bruises, blood, and a cast. Ice compressions lie packed at his sides and rested on his broken rib cage. The doctor ran a check on the machines and IV’s before setting the paperwork and surgery summary on the table next their resident spider. Dr. Brenner nodded at their matching thankful looks, earning curt nods in response before giving them the room. 

               Phil took the file and leant against the wall as he usually did while Natasha dragged the doctor’s stool over to his bed, slipping her small hand into Clint’s limp one without moving him. 

               Natasha’s body hurt. Every part of her that had been abused by her old mentor screamed in protest to the stiff position she had remained in for the past nine days that she had stayed by Clint’s side. The row of stitches up the side of her face stung from the accidental instance where she had slept with the left side of her face resting on her bent arm. The file lay forgotten on the counter top, and Phil slipped in and out of consciousness where he laid sprawled out on the hard plastic waiting room chairs that he had lined up. He shifted every so often to prevent the edges of the chairs from bruising the length of his body. He had given up trying to encourage Natasha to take a break, to let the doctor take a look at her injuries or to at least let him make sure there were no other complications causing the pain she was suffering from. She refused to leave her partner’s side until she had proof he would be ok. Clint hadn’t moved. A single muscle of his hadn’t twitched since they’d taken him off the morphine drip. Doctor Orion, who had been put in charge of Clint’s trauma recovery, insisted his body had been ready to check out and had been well on its way to doing so when they pulled him back and was working to make up all the lost strength. 

               “I’m making a food run, Romanoff. You want anything?” Phil asked tiredly, rubbing a hand across his face in pure exhaustion. Worry highlighted every inch of the older man’s features, making him look older than he really was. He was exhausted and hypocritically refused to take his own advice. 

               “I’m good Coulson, get some rest. I’ll keep you posted.” She offered firmly while keeping her eyes trained on her unconscious Hawk. Phil shook his head in denial, burying his hands in his pockets. 

               “Coffee and breakfast wrap?” he assumed blankly. Natasha sighed and nodded, tossing a thankful look over her shoulder. Phil dipped his chin in reply before slipping out of the recovery room. Natasha shut her eyes in a combination of frustration, pain and worry, carefully dropping her head on the mattress and avoiding the stitches trailing down the side of her face. Her body heaved once with a shaky inhale then she froze, unwilling to let a single dry sob pass her lips. She had sat there and _watched_ while they killed him. The irrational, childish part of her was tormenting her – coming up with things she could’ve done, like given them a false code. That at least would’ve given Barton’s body a rest until they figured out that it was a fake. But the other part of her that was thinking in an uncompromised state of mind reminded her that when they had figured out, they probably would’ve just killed him and been done with it. 

               The Russian knew she looked worse than she felt. She hadn’t slept properly in thirteen days and every time she tried, images of Bushov and Alexei and every other man that had tortured her in her lifetime, cut into her thoughts like a white hot knife. As if the mental pictures of Clint’s body wasn’t torment enough. 

               “Romanoff…” a forceful voice interrupted her thoughts. Her eyes snapped open and she scrambled backwards out of the chair to avoid whatever blow her unfocused brain expected. Phil towered over her with an even more so concerned expression than he had been wearing earlier. He blew out a curse, falling into the chair behind him and threading his fingers through his hair. “You need to get some actual sleep.” He muttered. “You were murmuring in Russian, sounded pretty panicked from my end.” He explained at her questioning look. She looked away, pushing herself off the floor and reclaiming her seat. 

               “I’m good.” She responded, trailing her hand over the shape of her partner’s archery enhanced biceps. Phil scowled, throwing himself out of his seat and stalking towards his stubborn agent with a murderous look on his face. He pulled her chair backwards, spinning it away from the bed, and keeping a firm hold on it to keep it from tipping over. He kneeled down so that he was at eye level with the Black Widow and shoved a wrapped sandwich into her lap, holding out a cup of coffee with a look that dared her not to take it. 

               “One hour.” He demanded. “That’s all.” Natasha gauged how angry he would be if she declined and slowly rose from the chair, wincing at the pull in her muscles. 

               “You’ll stay.” She posed it as a statement more than a question. Phil nodded. “And if I find out that he woke up and I wasn’t informed, I will shoot every last person who was made aware before I was, understood?” she growled lowly. 

               “Just go, Romanoff.” He rolled his eyes but gave her a sincere confirmation before he glared her away. 

               Natasha snapped into a sitting position, her ringing cell phone dragging her from the uneasy sleep she’d fallen into. It had been fifteen minutes since Phil had forced her out of medical. She hissed when the sudden movement stretched her muscles. She recognized Phil’s personalized ringtone, swung her legs off the bed and ran towards her dresser, ignoring the painful pull on her body. 

               “He’s waking up.” Was all she heard when she brought the answered device to her ear. 

               “On my way.” She muttered, already pulling her tennis shoes on, and pulling one of Clint’s loose fitting shirts on over her sports bra, absently noting that it fell a good three inches past her shorts. 

               “Did you get _any_ sleep Romanoff?” he sighed exasperatedly. 

               “Almost there, Coulson.” She deflected. He groaned. 

               “Get here.” He ordered, before the line went dead. Natasha growled, stuffing her phone in her back pocket and taking off down the hallway towards med bay. 

               She could hear frantic activity in his room from the end of the hallway, driving her forward. She ran to his room, shoving through the door to see doctors running around him, fixing tubes, and typing at the monitor as if that would slow down the heart monitor. Phil came up behind her, pushing her forward with a hand at her back. 

               “He’s crashing. You’ve got to calm him down Romanoff. His body can’t survive another crash.” He muttered anxiously. “Clear out!” he shouted at the nurses. They all froze and stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights. “ _Now!”_ he yelled, pointing to the door. Natasha leant over him where he laid thrashing around with a permanent terrorized grimace ingrained in his features. He bucked against the hand she rested on his sternum, wary of any touch after Bushov. Natasha held him down with her right hand, threading her fingers through his hair as he stopped fighting against her. 

               “Hey, Clint.” She murmured. “Listen to my voice.” She ordered. “We’re safe. Bushov can’t touch you anymore. He’s dead.” She let her Russian accent bleed into her words to help pull him back sooner. “Clint. You’re ok. We’re at SHIELD. Coulson got us out of Mumbai.” She added when his breathing remained labored. She leaned down and pressed her lips down against his, just long enough to get his attention. She left her forehead pressed against his, sighing in relief when his eyes snapped open. 

               “Tasha.” He ground out, coughing wetly and struggling to breathe through whatever water remained in his chest from the water boarding. She refused to release him, knowing he’d roll over on his side where his broken ribs wouldn’t be able to hold his weight. The wince that crossed his eyes told her he had figured out about the broken ribs due to the coughing. “You ‘kay?” his voice sounded worse than it would had he been gargling gravel. His hand reached up to trace the slowly healing stitches. 

               “I’m fine you idiot. I wasn’t the one who was drugged, beaten, electrocuted, burned, drowned, with a dislocated shoulder, concussion, a fever and internal bleeding. Don’t you _dare_ ask if I’m ok.” She ranted, chest heaving with dry sobs she had refused to acknowledge earlier. 

               “I’m ‘kay, Tash. I’m uh’kay.” He murmured drunkenly, hand falling on top of hers as it fell from her face. 

               “Just sleep, Clint. I’ll be here when you wake up.” She swore, falling back into the chair and taking that hand that had blindly begun to search for her. His grip tightened seconds before it went slack and Natasha relaxed.  

               _Pain._

               That was the first thing Clint registered when he came to the second time. He shifted his arm to try and discern the warm mass encasing his hand, and immediately reacted with a heavy wince. He cracked his eyes open minimally, squinting against the agitation it caused to his concussion. The second thing he registered was the blinding white walls of the SHIELD trauma recovery room. His fingers twitched across the familiar smooth surface of Natasha’s hand. The archer made the mistake of trying to turn to the side in an attempt to see her better. Pain sliced through his body just with the subtle movement. He could feel the blood drain from his face and his breathing grew shallow to a point of hyperventilation. His abused throat decided to chime in moments later, and Clint realized he wouldn’t have a shot of catching his breath. He felt the loss of heat as soon as Natasha pulled her hand away, followed by a steady flow of air into his lungs. He raised the less injured of his arms to his mouth to hold the oxygen mask in place, sucking in agonizing deep breath, after agonizing deep breath. 

               “I had them pull your morphine after surgery.” She muttered with an almost apologetic edge to her tone. He nodded in silent thanks, finally pulling the mask away. Natasha sighed, resting her hand against his cheek. He blinked slowly, grimacing as he coughed weakly. The redhead pulled her hand back, rising from her seat and moving towards the sink at the back of the room. 

               “How’d we get out?” he croaked, shifting and immediately paling once again. 

               “Stay still, идиот.” she growled as she filled a paper cup with tap water. “Coulson led a tac team in.” she responded, holding the cup out to her partner. 

               “Bushov?” he crushed the empty cup in his hand, letting it fall to the mattress in his fist. 

               “Dead.” She grunted, propping her elbows up on the side of the bed. The marksman brushed his hand along her forearm, gritting his teeth against the pain radiating from every abused inch of his body. She switched her jaw, staring him down with latent guilt pulsing in her eyes. 

               “Natasha…” he murmured quietly. Her gaze wavered momentarily before she regained her usual façade. 

               “What Clint?” she replied resignedly. 

               “Not your fault.” He insisted tiredly, arm falling limp on the mattress. 

               “I should’ve…” she started hesitantly. 

               “No.” he interrupted. “Stop.” He ordered as forcefully as he could, eyes fluttering in response to the tantalizing pull of numbness. “Not your fault.” He repeated, staring her dead in the eye – holding the Black Widow’s gaze even as it turned to a glare, something no man ever dared do. “You kept it together Tasha, tha’s good.” He slurred through his teeth, setting his jaw in an effort to shut out the blazing pain that burned everywhere. 

               “Barton.” Coulson barked from the doorway. 

               “Hey, old man.” Clint muttered, blinking slowly. 

               “How you holding up?” Phil asked warily, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black dress pants and walking to Clint’s side. 

               “Been be’er, been worse.” He murmured eyes falling shut. His body had decided it had dealt with enough pain for ten minutes and was going to sleep of its own accord. 

               “See you when you wake up, kid.” Phil responded quietly, meeting Natasha’s eyes before settling in his corner again. 

               Four days, thirteen hours, and twenty five minutes later – Clint had been keeping track since he regained consciousness – the SHIELD agents sat on the edge of Clint’s hospital bed, watching Dr. Orion fill out his release forms. Clint reached out with the arm that was not still suspended by a sling and carefully shook the man’s hand, wary of the strain on his broken ribs.  

               “You’ll take care of him, Romanoff?” Orion assumed, smirking as he signed his name on the last line of the release documents. Clint scowled as he pushed to his feet, swallowing back a wince and ignoring Natasha’s fleeting glare. 

               “I can take care of myself.” He growled. Orion glanced pointedly at his side where all three agents knew recently torn stitches were bandaged and healing. Clint grumbled something unintelligible – most likely Hungarian, his favorite language of choice when he was angry – and exited the recovery room. Natasha looked down at the short doctor, nodded her sincere thanks before hurrying off after her partner. 

               She found him on the roof, his good side leant up against the railing while he picked absently at the fabric of his sling. Natasha came up beside him, sharing in the view for a good ten minutes. The concrete skyline stood out against the bright blue sky, taunting one of its injured inhabitants with parkour waiting to be tested. Clint slowly shifted his gaze towards Natasha, reaching up to thumb over the bruises peppering her features with a feather light touch, ‘ _Never again.’_ She arched an eyebrow in reply, ‘ _Don’t make promises you can’t make happen.’_

“What are you thinking?” she asked softly after a reasonable period of silence. 

               “I am never going to back to Mumbai.”

               

 


End file.
